Extraction
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Tony is (eventually) rescued from Siberia and deals with what happened by not dealing with what happened.


Inspired by Captain America: Civil War, that movie's soundtrack, Zugzwang by Woad, and a Tumblr post mentioned by PriyaxRishabh that asked about how Tony got out of Siberia (the original post is now gone). I rounded it out by addressing some things I thought the movie left hanging. Many thanks to browarod for being my test audience and providing some valuable feedback.

This is my first foray into MCU fic, originally posted on AO3 on June 1.

* * *

_Extraction_

His vision swam sickeningly as he tried to rise, so he sank back down to the ground. Even then, his sight was blurry and doubled. He shook his head sharply to try to clear it, but all that managed to do was black out his vision entirely.

When he could see again-though he had no idea if it was minutes or hours later-his eyes still didn't want to cooperate, but he knew he had to get moving. He tried to stand once more, with even less success than the first time.

"Friday?" he called toward his badly damaged helmet a few feet away. There was no response, but he hadn't really expected one. If he couldn't stand, there wasn't enough power to run Friday, either. With the arc reactor out of commission and the sparse backup power damaged or drained, his suit was nothing more than an expensive paperweight. Or a body-shaped coffin, if it came to that. And it certainly could.

He had never had complete power failure in a suit before, and now there had been two within 24 hours. He would have to work on that. For now, he almost wished for the Mark 42 with its tendency to fall apart when the power in each prehensile piece ran low. But then, if he'd had that, there was a good chance Captain America would have dealt him a killing blow.

Perhaps it was better to be frozen in his cocoon instead.

Well, not entirely frozen. For now, he could at least move his arms and legs, but that likely wouldn't remain true for long. Since standing in the suit wasn't happening, he really ought to try releasing himself from it. That it took him so long to think of trying the manual release was a poor reflection on his usual genius self. A concussion seemed the likely explanation.

The release lever wouldn't budge. Even the backup release lever on the other side could not be convinced to move. He was trapped in his expensive paperweight, his metal cocoon, and trapped where he had to stare at the symbol of everything he was not.

Facing death in his suit brought unpleasant memories to mind. 'At least I'll have oxygen this time,' he thought hysterically, then proceeded to have a panic attack unlike any he'd had in over a year.

He may have hyperventilated himself into a faint. At least no one was there to witness the indignity.

.

When he was capable of coherent thought again, he spent longer than was wise considering his (lack of) options as the sweat in his hair froze and the cold began to creep down his neck.

Then he remembered the emergency beacon he'd designed into his left forearm at Pepper's demand. She had insisted, before Ultron or New York or even Vanko, that he have some non-arc-dependent way of calling for help. Just in case. So he'd added a small compartment with a battery-powered transmitter that would send his coordinates via text when the armor was tapped in the proper sequence.

At the time, he'd thought it was clever to make the signal sequence the Morse code for S.O.S.; now he just thought it was excessive. Too many taps. At least that area of the armor didn't appear too damaged, but it was impossible to say if the transmitter would work properly. Still, it was his only hope and Tony realized bitterly that his survival now hung on a 9-volt battery.

After that, there wasn't much for him to do but wait patiently, though neither waiting nor patience were his strong suits. Worse, waiting allowed ample time for thinking, and there were many things he'd rather not think about while he was possibly freezing to death.

Like the fact that neither recipient of his message was likely able (or willing?) to come to his aid. Rhodey was literally paralyzed and Pepper probably didn't want to deal with him anymore, not that he blamed her. He should've reprogrammed the recipients, but who else could he call? Steve would have been a logical choice, before . . .

Tony shied away from the thought with a flinch. That tiny motion within his suit reawakened dozens of abused nerve endings. He groaned as memories of all the various ways he'd suffered injury in the last day or so resurfaced. How many times had large objects crushed him? He wasn't sure anymore, and that wasn't even mentioning that he'd served as Steve's punching bag. He was getting too old for this.

Thinking about Steve made him angry again, and he glared daggers at the shield gleaming just out of reach. The insufferable, holier-than-thou bastard could have prevented this whole mess, but he was too focused on his beloved Bucky to consider how he was tearing apart his friends and everything they had built since Loki and New York.

Much like his father was too focused on finding Captain America for anything else to matter. Even Stark Industries was born from the technological advancements Howard developed to aid in the search for the lost Captain.

Whether his parents' deaths at Barnes' hands had anything to do with the search for Captain America, Tony couldn't say, but it seemed unlikely to be a coincidence. And his mother was an innocent bystander, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He understood Charlie Spencer's mother's grief all too well.

This time when his vision blurred, it was tears.

.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed; the light never seemed to change. At length he remembered that he was far enough north that the sun didn't set at this time of year. It would have been fitting, to have the sun set on his life as a hero as his life slipped away, but even that was denied him. Just as well, perhaps, since the number of people who still thought him a hero were probably few and far between by now.

. . . and that had to be the concussion talking. He wasn't ordinarily so maudlin. But then, these were hardly ordinary times. Ordinarily, the sight of Captain America's shield didn't make him break out in a cold sweat. Yet there it was, mere feet away, a cruel reminder of just how much had changed in so short a time.

He wondered if Steve realized that he had left Tony behind to die. As the minutes and hours continued to pass without any sign of rescue, the odds increased exponentially that he would become just another death on Captain America's conscience. Perhaps his would be different, having happened at Steve's own hand, but it seemed all too likely that he would continue to believe his actions were justified even though Tony would not have actually killed either him or Barnes.

It was too late now, too late for all of them. Even if he somehow made it back to the land of the living, there would forever be a gulf between them.

Given . . . everything, perhaps it was better if he didn't make it out alive.

Tony hung his head and closed his eyes.

.

The noise was distant at first, barely audible over the ringing in his ears he hadn't noticed before. Slowly it resolved into a single word, periodically repeated. "Stark?"

A flash of recognition. It was his name. But . . . why?

Still it continued, and he somehow knew it wouldn't stop until he acknowledged it. Trying to form words was beyond him, but he could make a noise. Moving his arm was more difficult than he remembered; he managed to strike it against the concrete that partially held him up, making a clanging, grinding noise. He repeated the motion at least a dozen times, then suddenly the voice was nearby.

"Stark!" she exclaimed, followed by a string of curses in Russian. "Stark, I know you can hear me. Open your eyes."

A light touch against his skin startled him and his eyes flew open. Natasha was bending over him, her expression unusually concerned. He tried to speak but his tongue got in the way. She offered him a sip from her hip flask-only water, more's the pity-and he tried again. "Never thought I'd be the damsel in distress."

She almost smiled, but her eyes still looked worried. "Where else are you injured?"

He thought it was a joke at first. It had to be, with his suit so battered. When he realized she was seriously asking that question, all he could do was laugh. The laughter quickly led to coughing as his lungs and ribcage protested the treatment, and as he coughed he couldn't catch his breath because the impact that took out the arc reactor also drove the chest plate inward at least an inch. Lack of oxygen kept the coughing going, and the vicious cycle wasn't broken until Natasha slapped him, hard.

"Ow," Tony said when he could breathe again. "I didn't deserve that."

"You needed it. Vision, can you carry him in the armor?"

"Of course."

Until Nat addressed him, Tony hadn't noticed Vision lurking in the background, watching in silence. He seemed to hesitate as he approached Tony, then looked at the ground as he said, "Mr. Stark, I am very sorry for what happened to Colonel Rhodes."

"We all have things to be sorry for," Tony replied tiredly as he was lifted into the android's arms. Natasha picked up the shield and his helmet, and the march out of the outpost began.

When they reached the blast chamber, Tony said impulsively, "In the office. There's a video . . ." He couldn't bring himself to say more than that; Nat just nodded and went to retrieve it. She emerged without comment, held up the tape, then dropped it into his helmet for carrying.

Tony wasn't aware of the rest of the journey to the waiting quinjet. The next thing he knew, he was strapped into a bunk on the jet, shivering in his suit and yearning for something to dull the pain. He had to lift his head to find Natasha and Vision; they were standing toward the front of the plane, conversing in low voices. He let his head fall back and groaned at the pain that action caused.

When he opened his eyes yet again (he had closed them?), Natasha was standing over him. Again. "Where are we going?"

She exchanged a glance with Vision. "Geneva. Pepper said there's an SI medical facility there."

He was going to nod, but realized just in time that it was a bad idea. "There is," he confirmed. "I've . . . stopped in once or twice before." It took his mental processing another second to catch up and inform him what that glance had been about. "You've told me that already."

"Three times. You seem more awake this time, though. The other times, you passed out again almost immediately."

"So there's hope I won't end up a vegetable, then. That's promising."

Nat just crossed her arms and raised a well-shaped eyebrow.

Tony sighed heavily, wishing he could raise a hand to massage his forehead, but his arms were strapped down (or perhaps they weren't and he was simply too weak at the moment; either was possible). "I really thought I was a dead man," he admitted finally.

"What happened?"

He let out a shaky breath. "I . . . can't say."

"Can't, or won't?" She regarded him thoughtfully, then said slowly, "I suspect I know part of what happened, but if you'd ever care to tell me I'm wrong, feel free. It can stay off the record." After a moment, she added, "Some people say shared knowledge is easier to bear. It might help to talk about it."

"How about you tell me how you and Vision came to be the rescue party? I'm pretty sure you don't have a habit of answering other people's phones." He was deflecting and she knew it, but she played along.

"We were with Rhodey when your message arrived. He couldn't come, of course, so we did."

"And you talked to Pepper."

"Yes."

Tony fell silent, then asked suspiciously, "Why haven't you asked me about the tape?"

"Why would I? I could watch it if I wanted. Perhaps I already have."

He stared at her for a moment, his mind slowly drawing its conclusions. "You already know," he whispered, horrified. "Who else knows, Natasha?" he demanded. "Does Barton? Vision? Wanda? Goddammit, Nat, when was someone going to tell me that fucking Bucky Barnes killed my mom?" His voice steadily gained in volume until he was nearly shouting. "How long-" his voice broke and suddenly he could not get enough air.

Nat removed the straps holding him in place, but Vision had to help him sit up. "Breathe, Stark," she commanded.

He would have preferred to pass out in that moment, then wake and pretend none of it had happened, but no such luck. He closed his eyes and leaned against the bulkhead, feeling utterly exhausted. "When?" he murmured.

"Steve and I found out just before SHIELD collapsed. We're the only ones who knew."

"And you didn't think I'd want to know?"

"It wasn't my place to say," Nat said. "Does it matter? They're still dead."

Tony stared at her disbelievingly. "You did not just say that. It. Matters. Get the hell away from me."

A chime sounded from the front panel. "We're nearly there," Natasha said, stepping away and sliding into the pilot's seat.

.

Later, Tony would claim not to remember the lengths they had to go to in order to pry the suit off of him. Truthfully, it involved a good deal of pain and possibly even a few screams in spite of the generous amounts of morphine they so kindly provided once they had an available extremity in which to inject it.

His clothes were ruined even before they were cut off of him so he could be sent through the MRI machine. After that were some supplementary x-rays and a date with the CT machine, and the spoilsports expected him to be awake the whole time. He wouldn't have minded nearly so much if only he was allowed to sleep.

When he was finally, finally wheeled into a room to be left alone for a while, Natasha and Vision were waiting. Not alone, then. He sighed and punched the button for more lovely, lovely pain meds.

"You looked better when you were dying," Nat said dryly.

"It's the neck brace," he said, waving toward it dismissively. "It's not a good look for me."

"Half your face is swollen."

"That's better than both halves," he retorted.

"Some of it is going to scar."

"And enhance my rugged good looks."

"You're high as a kite right now, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

"Higher," he said dreamily. "But not in space. I don't like space." He frowned.

"Why don't you tell us what happened?"

"I was wounded to my very soul," he said, then started snoring.

He jolted awake, his heart pounding, the tatters of a dream-no, a memory-still teasing his thoughts as a doctor came into the room. Natasha and Vision were nowhere to be seen.

"You are a very lucky man, Mr. Stark," the doctor said without preamble. "There is no bleeding in your brain or your internal organs. You fractured a couple of vertebrae at the base of your neck, so you'll need to continue wearing that collar for a little while, but there's no damage to the spinal cord. Your cheekbone and several ribs are also fractured and your sternum is bruised, but all of your remaining injuries are to the soft tissue. Cuts, bruises, a sprain or two. I'll send someone to put some stitches in those cuts on your face." He paused. "Any questions?"

Tony shook his head slightly, then winced.

"Ah, yes, you do have a concussion, so we'll be monitoring that as well. Take it easy, and you'll be back to normal in no time."

He didn't know what normal was anymore. The standard had changed several times in the past decade or so, and now he was beyond them all, in uncharted territory. There was a time that he would have found that prospect exhilarating; now he just felt exhausted. It didn't help that, as far as he could see, the world was past any point of needing him.

He was about to indulge in a self-pitying sulk, but Pepper burst in. "Tony! Oh my god, Tony, Natasha said you looked bad, but this is bad even for you. Have they told you anything?"

"The doctor said I'll live," he said flippantly, feeling better for the distraction.

She came to the bedside and gently took his right hand, holding it in both of her own. "Nothing serious?"

He waved dismissively with his left hand, noting as he did so that he probably shouldn't have-his forearm ached like the devil. "Nah, bumps, bruises, a few fractures. Nothing's even properly broken."

"That's a relief," she said and, with a touch of surprise, he noted she did actually look relieved. "When I got your message, I knew it had to be bad."

"It was." He could admit it, knowing the information wouldn't go beyond her. "The reactor was trashed. I had no power in the suit. I thought I would freeze to death."

She gently kissed his knuckles, then released his hand. "Why on earth were you in Siberia?"

"Long story."

Pepper pulled the room's sole chair closer to the bed. "Go to sleep. You can tell me about it later."

"I don't deserve this," he mumbled.

"And yet here I am."

He slept the sleep of the exhausted (and drugged) in between the sadistic nurses waking him up to interrogate him on the date and the day of the week and other such nonsense. Still, he tolerated it with a minimum of complaining because Pepper was sitting there giving him That Look.

When he woke properly in the morning, both his favorite redheads were sitting beside the bed. Wait, Nat wasn't currently a favorite; she had done something to piss him off, though at that moment he couldn't remember precisely what.

Even better, they were talking about him. Well, about his injuries and how he might have come by them. Their speculation was interesting but inaccurate. He suspected Natasha knew-or guessed-more than she said.

Then Pepper asked, "Does Captain Rogers know what happened?"

Tony snorted and thought darkly, _You bet he knows._

Nat glanced toward him as if she heard him, but answered Pepper instead. "We haven't been able to get in contact with him since he and Bucky left Leipzig." Then she addressed Tony. "Good morning, sleeping beauty. Unfortunately, you haven't slept long enough yet." She tossed his phone onto the bed by his hand. "This was in your pocket. Don't worry, I charged it for you."

"Liar. The battery lasts for days. I am something of a pioneer in the energy field, you know."

"Really? No one had mentioned it."

"How are you feeling, Tony?" Pepper asked, ignoring their banter in favor of getting to the point.

"I'll live," he said dismissively, his eyes fixed on his phone. He could feel her glower at him, so he meekly raised his gaze to her face. "Really, Pep, I have the good drugs and my injuries could have been much worse. I'll be fine."

"When have you ever been fine?" she said fondly. "They'll let you leave around midday, if you behave yourself."

"I will be a perfect angel," he assured her, already turning back to his phone. He had work to do.

They left promptly at noon, ensconced in a Stark Industries private jet bound for New York City. At least, he and Pepper did. Natasha and Vision opted to take the quinjet back to the Avengers compound. Natasha probably thought he was more likely to talk to Pepper about what happened if they weren't around. She was right, though increasing the odds slightly from 'no way in hell' still left them with 'not bloody likely, thank you very much'.

The day he understood why people kept pressuring him to talk yet not appreciating it when he did talk would be the day he'd die, he was sure of it. Yet days in which he nearly died were more numerous than he'd like to admit, but still no insight. This was why he worked with machines. So much easier to understand.

Once he and Pepper were at The Tower (he didn't know what to call it, with the Avengers not really a thing anymore, but it certainly wasn't just his tower either, so The Tower it was), he threw himself into creating walking braces for Rhodey in earnest. He visited Rhodes daily, watched the physical therapy sessions, and knew he could do better than what was available.

But then, he always thought he could do better and thinking like that is what led to Ultron. Never mind that, this wasn't intended to be sentient.

He tweaked and studied, studied and tweaked, barely noticing as his bruises started to fade, though he definitely celebrated the day he was free of that nuisance collar. So limiting. And if by 'celebrating' he meant that he spent too much time hunched over his prototype and had a stiff neck for the next two days, well, who would notice?

After about a week of minding him, Pepper went back to doing the SI gig full-time, though she was still based in New York for the moment so she could come up to his floor and check on him. He would stop his work and they would have dinner and pretend that they could maybe still make this relationship thing happen.

She certainly could, if he was willing to finally keep his promise to her that he would give up being Iron Man. He was the one with Issues. And yes, his issues were so numerous they merited a capital i. He had been betrayed too many times by people he'd thought were close to him, thought were friends, that his trust issues had trust issues.

In that light, giving up on the suits was to leave himself unprotected, to say nothing of his inability to see people in harm's way without wanting to do something about it. Because there was almost always something that could be done. Except lately, he'd done little more than make things worse. Perhaps it really was time to give up on the superhero business. Yet he didn't want to, even after . . . everything.

But he didn't like to think about that. And the best way to avoid thinking, he'd found, was to make stuff. So he made leg exoskeletons for Rhodey; when that design was finalized, with Rhodey's input, he'd use them for the new War Machine suit, as well.

And, of course, he worked on a new version of the Iron Man suit (which he would also use for the War Machine suit-hey, he was generous like that) that had more backup power and also better shielding for the power sources and, yes, that dratted emergency beacon since it had already saved his bacon once.

For all her faults, Nat was great at making sure tech didn't fall into the wrong hands, so he had all of the scraps of his old suit to study from and tweak so this Never Happened Again. The chestpiece was a wonder in the best and worst ways and he alternated between wanting to hang it on the wall in celebration of the fact that he wasn't dead and wanting to melt it down so he couldn't be tormented by the vision of the shield descending upon him.

Wisely, he realized the visions didn't need a hunk of metal to torment him, so he might as well use it to be better next time.

It seemed like only a few days before Rhodey was cleared to leave Columbia and go back to the Avengers compound, though Tony knew it was at least two weeks, almost certainly more. And while it was good news, Tony went back to the Tower feeling a sense of dread. Pepper had convinced him that he should go to live at the compound, at least for a while, under the pretense that Rhodey would need him and appreciate him being there. She also feared he would be lonely, alone in the tower, though she didn't say so (he knew her too well for her to be able to hide it).

He'd promised both Pepper and Rhodey he would spend some time at the compound, but he didn't think he belonged. He hadn't been living there Before, hadn't been there since the Accords had first come up, and he wasn't sure he could live with seeing traces of the others who were not there-especially one person in particular.

He made it through that last night by not sleeping-to avoid nightmares-and by throwing himself deep into his tinkering. He only nearly had a panic attack once.

Tony was at the hospital when Natasha and Vision arrived with a quinjet to retrieve Rhodes; they offered him a lift as well, but he deferred. He saw them off, then drove himself upstate. He needed the space that having a car available would give him, needed the feeling of freedom to come and go as he pleased despite not having a working suit yet.

.

What had been a reasonably good day was spoiled by the one-two punch of Rogers' letter and Ross' phone call. Steve Rogers was a sanctimonious bastard to the end, but the worst part was he was at least partially right-Tony knew all too well that something big would come down the pike eventually, and when that happened, he would call on Captain America's aid. Not because he could forgive the man, but because the world needed the superhero. It rankled.

When Natasha found him in his office, he was staring at the letter from Steve while the hold light blinked red in his peripheral vision. "Good daydream?" she asked, breaking into his reverie. "How long have you had Ross on hold?"

Tony jumped a little when she spoke, then glanced toward the phone. "Almost a half hour. He's going to be pissed."

"When isn't he pissed?"

"Is he still after you?"

"No. Apparently King T'Challa has refused to cooperate, so all charges have been dropped. In his refusal, he noted that the Accords do not grant any authority to the U.S. Secretary of State, so Ross does not officially have power over us anyway. Unofficially, of course, he can make our lives difficult."

Tony sighed. "Going off the grid sounds more appealing by the second, but Rhodey isn't going anywhere fast and Vision can't exactly blend in. Why are you still here?"

She shrugged, gazing out the window. "Technically, I signed the Accords same as you. I only go where our keepers send us. Practically? I could disappear, I've done it before, but there are things I can do here that I can't do on the run. Laura and the kids are fine, by the way."

"About that . . ." he started, then stopped, grimacing. "Did Barton go public about his family when he retired?"

"No, why?"

Tony swore under his breath, then put his face in his hands. "I mentioned them on the Raft. I'm sure Ross heard."

Nat stared at him. "Why would you do that?" she demanded.

"I'm not used to the super spy game, where entire families can be a secret," he said defensively.

"Dammit, Stark, you are unbelievable." Nat stormed out, no doubt to warn Mrs. Barton that she might be in danger.

Likely was in danger, now that Barton and the others had escaped from the Raft and she could be used as . . . persuasion for the fugitives. Or at least, that's what he assumed, given what little Ross had managed to say before he was put on hold.

Time to find out what Ross would tell him.

.

The bedroom felt more like a hotel room than something that was actually his, even though he'd designed it for himself (as he'd done for everyone when the building was remodeled, as he'd done in the Tower). Still, he promised Rhodey he would try to get some sleep after his friend good-naturedly bullied him into admitting how little he'd actually slept lately, so he stretched out on the bed.

He stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, contemplating the suggestions Rhodey had made for his leg exoskeletons, mentally conjuring the blueprints onto the blank surface.

At some point he descended into dream-memories, once again reliving some of his worst experiences. The fact that the wormhole into space was no longer the absolute worst was . . . frightening.

Predictably, recent events made their way into his dreamscape, altered in new and horrible ways. Now, it was Captain America beside his parents' car, it was the shield that ended his father's life. Then Steve was once again above him, poised for that final strike, and this time the target wasn't the reactor . . .

He sat up with a gasp, trembling and sweating profusely. Natasha, who had been bending over him, jumped back at his sudden movement. "Stark?" she said cautiously.

Tony scuttled backwards across the bed in fright before he recognized her voice. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

"You were screaming."

He took a few deep breaths, feeling his heart continue to race, and swallowed. "Apologies for disturbing you," he said as evenly as he could manage.

"Vision was worried. He's never been around for one of your dreams before." She waited a moment, then asked, "The usual?"

"At first," he admitted. "But then . . . " Tony hesitated.

Natasha waited patiently.

"Did you ever watch that video?"

"No."

He hesitated a moment longer, then said decisively, "Friday, display the December 1991 video, followed by the suit recording."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"You wanted to know what happened. I'm showing you."

The images displayed in the empty space between them, Nat still standing beside the bed, Tony seated on the opposite side of the mattress. He watched her rather than the images that were seared into his mind, saw her flinch as his father died, then swallow reflexively as his mother died.

The suit recording was the audio and HUD data from the moment the video stopped until the arc was rendered nonfunctional. At first she didn't seem to know where to look, but her eyes settled on the suit diagram as it flashed red with each successive impact until the entire diagram glowed angrily. Then the image of the arc flared and the feed stopped abruptly.

He hadn't watched the recording before, though he remembered vividly most of the impacts and felt his body twinge in sympathy at several points. By the end he was shaking and breathing heavily; Natasha looked troubled.

"Steve and Bucky were responsible for all of the damage to your suit."

"Yes."

"And they left you behind in Siberia."

"Yes."

"That is not the Steve I thought I knew." She sounded sad. "He had to realize you couldn't fly like that. Maybe he thought you brought a chopper, a quinjet, something."

"I'd like to think so." And he really did. For all that had happened, he didn't want it to be true that freaking Captain America had left behind a (former) teammate to die. That wasn't like him . . . was it?


End file.
